


The Gray Ghost

by delphinium (minyandu)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, Minutemen, Racism, Racist Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:00:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minyandu/pseuds/delphinium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a legend among the minutemen of Massachusetts Bay: if you met the Gray Ghost on your way, lucky soul, your passage would be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one doesn't contain a lot of Connor. He's mostly the background.  
> Also, the work is unbeta at the moment. So if you spot any mistake, it would be very kind of you to leave a comment to point me to it. :)

John Willard was the second son of a farmer and brewer in Concord, with an elder brother and three younger siblings. When it became apparent that he possessed neither talent nor diligence for either farming or apprenticeship, his father suggested military in a tacit attempt to keep him from becoming a layabout.

Like any able-bodied man in the British colony of Massachusetts Bay, John had been participating in their local militia training since 16. His performance was mediocre at best. Enthusiasm, reliability and strength were not among his most visible qualities. At a better time, he would not be chosen to join the minutemen. But it was 1774, the colony's militia was short of hands, and the head of the local company was a family friend.

This was how John found himself ambushed by a band of redcoats.

 

He was crouching behind a convoy and frantically pounding gunpowder into his musket. Lead pellets wheezed by and collided on earth not far ahead, sending up a puff of dust. Two convoys away laid their captain William Palmer, an old soldier who had recruited John with a grudge. A bullet to his head had plunged the team into leaderless disarray. Some quickly tried to fire back, like Isaac, the 17-year-old Palmer boy who had been their sharpest shooter. That was when John spotted something weird. Amidst the chaos of firefight, another bullet took out the brave young boy. John did not think that lead came from the redcoats. On the other side of the track, he caught a glimpse of some shadow moving. They were not in red.

“John! John!”Barry’s call drew him back. The lanky middle-aged man scrawled to the convoy nearby, “I can see a bit more the redcoats here. I call out the mark, you shout out the fire order! Com’ on!”

“I think someone else’s shooting us too!” He shouted back.

“What? “Barry’s eyes rounded, then narrowed and quickly glanced at the hillside ahead.

“I think it’s that take out Bill and his boy!” John hissed. Barry seemed to spot nothing, but he didn’t call John out: “The redcoats first. We can’t let them take the convoys!”

They could not lose the convoys. Under the pelts and apples was gunpowder they picked up at the entrance to Cape Ann, coming from Sint Eustatius by ship, something the minutemen desperately needed.

“Hurry up! They are loading. On my mark!”Barry shouted to him.

John was not sure about a ton of things. But he had no better choice.

“ON MY MARK!!!”He cried out at the top of his lung.

It was probably the most recognized quality about John: he could be very loud if he wanted to. The rattled minutemen seemed to be shaken awake. Irregular gunfire suddenly ceased. People scrambled into position. John could see nothing other than Barry’s hand fall.

“FIRE!!!”He howled, twisted around and fired at the red bits he could see.

There seemed to be a tumult among the enemy. Barry crowed. The minutemen threw themselves into reloading. John saw Barry raise his hand. He was about to shout.

Then the bullets came again. One grazed barely inch above his head, tearing the oil cloth of the convoy. The other caught Barry on the shoulder. The man screamed and writhed on the ground. John didn’t think. He scrambled to Barry and dragged him away. They lost both sight of the redcoats and the chance of salvo. Shots showered at the convoys. They were lucky to lose no one in this round. But John started to worry about how long the convoys could last. Barry was cursing and pressing at his wound. He was very pale. John wanted to help stop the bleeding at least. But little could be done at their state. His hands were shaking.

Barry pushed him away weakly: “Gotta get out of this. You gotta call the boys to fight back. Com’ on, John.”

His eyes blazed like a candle about to burn up. It burnt John’s stomach, too.But they had no way to turn. The British already cut off their retreat. The firepower pressed the minutemen to a cliff they could not hope to climb. John thought dreadfully of the mysterious shooters and look again to the hillside ahead. 

He saw a man on a pale horse dashing onto the hill. The man made an impossible jump and lunged behind the bushes, pale gray coat flapping like bird’s wings.

John looked back at Barry:”I see the Gray Ghost.”

Barry looked up at him in confusion:”What?”

His skin was pale and glazed. Blood was seeping through his jacket.

“I see the Gray Ghost.” John repeated, turned around and dashed to the convoy Barry once took cover. Beyond a larger break of leaves and branches, he saw the redcoats aimed, their captain’s hand raised. A minuteman behind a nearby convoy was about to stand out to shoot.

“TAKE COVER!!!” He yelled.

Everybody ducked back. Bullets showered at them, but none came from the other hillside. John tried to reload his musket. But his hands were shaking too badly. He watched both minutemen and redcoats race their reloading instead.

“ON MY MARK!!!” He cried out, and saw a red coat raise his head in terror.

“FIRE!!!”

 

John could barely hear more than gunshots. The redcoats were losing their formation. They were also moving away from the only spot he could see their action. The other minutemen were itching for a final assault.

Suddenly flew out the great pale horse. The gray-hooded rider spurred the beast to rush at the redcoats. The minutemen charged in the wake.

John started to follow but staggered. Strength left him in an embarrassing sudden. He gazed after the others, and fatigued. He stumbled to help Barry and another survived minuteman instead.

 

The final battle didn’t take long. The Gray Ghost rode back and off to the dreadful hillside again, then disappeared. It took some time for the minutemen to regroup. With that many powder kegs, wounded soldiers had to ride a convoy with the wrapped-up dead. A few muskets, ammunition and spoils were added to their supplies. They checked the hillside before finally taking off. Three bodies were found. None dressed in British red. They dressed just like any ordinary frontiersmen. The bodies had been thoroughly searched and looted. Nothing was left to tell their identities. John crouched and turned up the right hand of one. He saw thick callus on the inside of the index finger. The trigger finger. There was also a tearing mark on the man’s neck, like a necklace had been torn away.

No one knew what to make of this discovery. The minutemen left with an uneasy feeling. The rest of the way, fortunately, was eventless. Barry was the eldest other than old William Palmer. If not for the wound, he would have led them. But he was useless now. The rest of the minutemen were all young men about John's age, merely a bit more skillful. With pretty much nothing that needed giving out order, they discussed and planned a little before leaving each stop. John constantly fell behind to keep an eye on the manned convoy. He begged an old grater from a household they had passed by and insisted to feed grated apple to his wounded comrades. The others mercifully left him to his antics.

They had managed to take out the bullet and stop the bleeding on Barry’s shoulder. The man was reclining on a pile of pelts, carefully holding his bad side up. Even in the dimmed convoy, he still looked too paled to John’s opinion. The lanky man peered at him when accepting the puree.

“You saw the Gray Ghost.” He croaked.

John shrugged. Barry’s face twisted into something nasty. And then, he seemed just giving out. His face was still sour, but the muscles relieved.

“We will be safe, for now.” He mumbled, and fell into a fitful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The work is unbeta at the moment. So if you spot any mistake, it would be very kind of you to leave a comment to point me to it. :)

The luxury of getting a doctor had to wait until they were back to Concord. The team was dispersed into action all at once. The powder kegs needed to be stocked as soon as possible. So were the other goods and supplies. One ran for the local doctor. Another went to call some townsmen to help move their wounded. Normally, John should be the one to inform the Palmers. But as he had taken up the job to care for the wounded in the previous days, the three minutemen left shouldered the job of laying the dead and informing the family.

Barry moaned when first being lifted up, and then he whined loudly when being moved. Till John and others put him down on a bed in the Wright tavern, he was cursing up and down just for the sake of it. The doctor was a respectable sobersides who had seen enough wounded minutemen and mauled hunters in his life. He raised an eyebrow at John:

“It seems that you have done a good job. “

He waved John up, “Help me turn him to his good side. Pray the wound is not infected.”

Barry gave John a warning look. John chose to ignore that and helped the doctor. The bandage and ruined clothes were quickly cut away, revealing the inflamed wound.

“You sure there’s no shards left inside?” asked the doctor.

John shook his head: “it doesn’t look shattered.”

The doctor nodded, and said: “I still need to check and clean it up.” He gestured John to the other wounded soldier and, to John’s great surprise, thrusted him a pair of scissor. “You’ve seen the drill.”

The other minuteman was a much better patient. The bullet had gone clean through his calf. He was younger and fared much better than Barry. The man put on a show of calmness when John fought down the tremor in his hands. The tavern owner brought in clean linen, hot water and spirit. The doctor gave John a few more instructions after washing their hands and preparing the equipment.

And when John turned back to deal with his “patient”, Barry hollered like a skewered wolf dying.

He was given a severe scold for being melodramatic by the doctor.

 

Barry's wife and daughters flooded in before the doctor even finished his chide. The room were suddenly filled with anxious questions and relieved prayers. John had to persuade them again under Dr Leanne’s stern glare. For no one really wanted to cross the doctor at this moment, they turned to shower John with a million thanks, apparently had heard from others that he had a major role in bringing Barry back. It took more time for John to get away from the praises and return to watch the doctor finishing the suture. When they could leave Barry to his wife and children, Barry’s brothers had closed the smith shop early and came, too. They hugged John wholeheartedly, promising dinner and drinks for two years. The whole situation was starting to get a bit ridiculous. Doctor Leanne gave them amused looks. John’s family also came to greet him. The Willards were busy people. But one by one they came around the tavern and spoke with John. It was almost surreal when he could at the same time hear the Palmers’ wailing from the church.

There was still some time before he had to return home for dinner. John found a place outside of the church to hang around. He might already be the last minuteman to offer condolence to the family. But it felt dreadfull to think about the bodies and the tears, the grief and the devastated hollowness. The Palmers lost both a father and a son. It wasn’t hard to imagine how life things would become in the harsh frontier. In the end, John just sat and waited, thinking of giving condolence once the family went out, so he at least didn’t have to see the bodies again.

But it was Colonel James Barret stepping out of the churn first. He spotted John and came up.

“John. I’ve heard from the others. You did a great job.” He nodded in approval.

“Thank you, sir. It was the least I could do.” Said John, feeling a little embarrassed. He hoped the other had left out his absence in the final assault.

The Colonel regarded him for a moment, and said: “Barry might be right. You are a worthy soldier after all. You just ain’t what most think a worthy soldier is. “

John frowned at the words. He bowed his head a bit further to avoid looking impolite.

“Start from next week, go help doctor Leanne if you don’t have drill that day. Come to me if the doctor has other opinion on the arrangement. “The colonel smiled. “Which I doubt he will have any as long as you keep up the good work.”

John was rendered speechless. He raised his head in surprise.

“Yes sir.” He managed to say.

The church door opened again. Colonel Barret gave him a gentle shove to the Palmers.

“Go now. Finish your duty.” And then he left.

 

It took another month for the Barts to realize their dinner invitation, when Doctor Leanne decided Barry to be good enough to leave the tavern. According to him, the Barts house, which was attached to their smith shop, was too noisy and polluted for a patient’s recovery. So the dinner also became Barry’s welcome-home party. The Barts roast a turkey and a suckling pig . Stews with vegetables and game meats were served. There were Indian pies and cranberry pies. It was almost like Thanksgiving coming early. They ate and drank until the children started falling asleep at the table. The women started cleaning up and getting the kids to bed. Barry’s brother invited John to the tavern for another round, which John politely declined. Barry himself was harder to refuse. He got the horse and put a stop to John’s protest with a glare.

“Only to the fork near the church. I ain’t that delicate. “He grunted, and led the way slowly.

John had no choice but to follow. Barry shared some tobacco leaves with him.

“You are doing quite well at Doctor Leanne’s.” He said. For the previous month he had been the first witness of John’s apprenticeship under Doctor Leanne, which so far could count as a success. John chewed on the leaves and nodded.

“Good. Tis’ good.” Barry grumbled, “Don’t waste this chance, kid. You know that, right?”

John nodded and lowered his head. He had apprenticed in the Barts’ smith shop a few years ago, right before he started militia training. No more than three months later he was returned home. Barry’s brother claimed him “too chickenhearted to handle the furnace” and “a skulker, tend to sneak out from time to time”. It was a wonder that Barry still believed in him, even vouched for his enrollment.

“You ain’t a bad kid, John. Your eyes and ears are keener than most. I know that. Tis’ why I never doubt what you have seen. You ain’t the type that charges at the forefront, but You ain’t never the first to run away from battle, either. You don’t leave your pals behind.” He seemed to fix on the idea of John becoming a great soldier, “You saved the team and the powder.”

John had never received such a long heart to heart from anyone. It felt uncomfortable to say the least. But at the same time, it somewhat made him giddy, his heart flustered inside.

“The Gray Ghost saved us.” He said.

Barry stopped. They were in front of the church now. The fork was visible ahead. He turned to sit on a large slab of stone.

His silence confused John. The Gray Ghost was a well-known legend among the minutemen: a man in a hooded gray coat, coming out of nowhere to help when someone was bullied by the redcoats. Some even claimed to see it rushed by town at night, or lurked around the fences and treetops.

“It’s not a ghost. “ Barry grunted unhappily.

It confused John even more. Because no minutemen really thought it was a ghost. That was unmistakably a living human. Real ghosts did not shoot guns and arrows, did not slit throats and loot bodies. John even met the Ghost once before. Last year they had been summoned to help defend a few merchant convoys from Cape Ann. A band of redcoats had intended to rob the goods. The Gray Ghost had come out of nowhere like this time and helped them fight off the Brits. Barry was there, too. When the Ghost seemed to take an interest in the convoy and approached, Barry snapped at him and pushed him away.

“It’s…”

“It’s not a ghost. It’s an Indian man. “Barry grit his teeth.

Ah, then, John remembered. Barry’s unhappy grudge against the Natives. For what reason John had no idea, but Barry was always suspicious of the Native hunters passing by. If he saw a Native looked into the window of the general store instead of going straight inside to trade, he would go up to question and chase the Native away.

“We can’t trust an Indian. It’s too dangerous. John, I know your family has some tie with them. But it’s naive to count on them. ”

John wasn’t sure what he should make of this. His ancestor bought the land from a local tribe and named it Concord in appreciation of the peaceful purchase. There were wampum and other things on the wall of the old Willard house, in which his line no longer lived. He had seen quite a few but never knew a Native in life. He couldn’t even speak Algonquian language like his ancestor. Barry’s grudge against these people felt distant and strange. 

Barry saw his face and sighed.

“I don’t really hate these people, you know. I don’t want them all dead or something. But you have to see. They are different from us. They don’t believe the same god. They don’t follow the same moral. ”

He bit down on the leaves hard. His words were turning into a rant,

“Now he’s helping us, but who knows why he does that? He’s not really on our side! I’ve met pals from other town. One said he spotted him when they were guarding some old trinket box found in a collapsed house. They were then attacked by a strayed bobcat, lost a man before they could kill the beast. So no help if you are facing beasts, apparently. Who knows why’s that and what’s the difference? Worse, later they found out that the box was lost. No doubt the Ghost had taken it in chaos, to fish in troubled water. “

He breathed a long and trembling breath, almost looked painful for speaking so long and so heatedly.

“We have no way to tell his intention. We don’t know where his loyalty lies. We are facing a war, John. We don’t have time for this shit. What if next time we do something and he feels badly offended? Worse than the redcoats I tell you. At least we all know what the redcoats want.”

He spat out the tobacco and deflated a little.

“It’s late. You should be home soon, kid.” Barry stood up and looked towards the fork and the fields beyond. He handed John the rein,

“Stay safe. Just, be smart.”

 

John’s home located on the outskirt of town. On the horse back, he could see chilling night wind tousled the ripen crops. The moon was round and high. The grass leaves were sprinkled silver as if frost had already come. Hares and deer skittered across the grass and dived into the tree line. He wondered if he would see a gray shadow. Barry’s words were still ringing in his head. He wondered about the Native man under the hood. Maybe he should learn some Algonquian. Sure his trader cousins in the old house would know some. If the war was coming like Barry said, this might come into handy. It was better than knowing nothing about the Natives. Or maybe it would not be enough still. That John was too naive to think learning some language would be enough to solve problems. That the colonists and Natives would still want each other out of the way. And wars and plagues would still come as they had come before.

His head felt like about to explode with thoughts, but there was no way to let them out. He had no one he could turn to talk or ask. For John, the ride hadn’t felt this lonely for quite some time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Connor in this chapter :P

Time passed. Between the harvest, militia training and apprenticeship, days went by and merged into a indistinguishable blur. Next time John noticed, the fields were bare, frost starred the dark soil, and the cold bit into his fingers just as bad as a lancet.  
He swung the axe down to crack open the log. The unhealed cuts on his fingers protested persistently. But the fresh sting earlier had become a dull ache. The bandage method he learned worked out well. It gave him a surge of pride to add a few more pieces of firewood to the pile before taking a break. Preparing firewood was not something he would prefer before. But it was heavy physical work. It made good appearance. He could also hide in the shed without being bothered much. Overall his family was pleased with the apprenticeship, but some aspects of it they might be less so. John could appreciate some privacy while working on those.  
He readjusted the bandage on his hand. On his left, a few leaflets sat on an open tome. Sketches and notes scrawled on the pages. John had no idea how Dr Leanne got hold of such things. The notes were unreadable nonsense. But the sketch was unmistakably a fetus in a cut-opened uterus. John had never seen a fetus. A baby, definitely. But an actual fetus was a totally different story. There was a strange air of tenderness and concentration in those fluent flow of lines, which convinced John of its accuracy. But still, it was not something you would want to be spotted by the local pastor or your devout mother.  
He took out another page from under. This one was the anatomy of an arm. Dr Leanne had put on some detailed annotations for vessels and muscles. It was for the instruction of a successful arm amputation. John signed and put away the page. He could recite the image and those ridiculously obscure names well enough, but took him a few years back, he would no doubt prefer furnace and heat over blood and gore.  
He shoved the page to the bottom and open the tome of pharmacopoeia.

"Master John." The voice was soft. But it surprised him anyway. John felt the flush of heat running to his face. He had no desire to be caught reading during work time . But it was just Anna. The servant girl put down the bread and the bowl of stew.  
"I took the liberty to brought some more bread. You must be quite hungry already."she smiled.  
He missed lunchtime again, obviously. John nodded and dived into the food in an attempt to hide his embarrassment.  
"Have you eaten?" he asked. The house servant was always busy. It wouldn't be a surprise if Anna hadn't had her lunch yet. The girl blushed and shook her head.  
"I will have mine once back." She assured John. John still shared the last piece of bread with her. The girl's cheeks were as red as an apple.  
"May I ask for a help, sir?" Anna waited for John to finish eating before tentatively took out an envelope from her pocket. And he suddenly remembered .  
Anna was from Ireland. Every few months, she sent her salary back home, and her family would send letters to her from Europe. However, Anna was illiterate. The only free time she had from work was Sunday mass. Their local pastor helped illiterate people with reading and writing letters to families. But that was a luxury most indentured servants couldn't even manage. John’s family could not afford more servant. The Willards kept no slave. Anna was always too busy.  
She begged help from John’s mother when the first letter arrived. The responsibility slowly shifted to the older children over the years. Both John and his big brother had helped Anna read and write letters before. Now, as John left home often for apprenticeship, it was most likely Maria, his sister, who was helping. It had been a while since last time John saw those curly letters written by the local pastor of Anna’s family in Ireland.  
The letter contained nothing new. The same mundane words of greetings and recent events of the family, how her last letter helped and what in need of money. But Anna always looked slightly more alive, her eyes with the same kind of glint when she was at the Sunday mass. That, and her grateful thanks always made John feel uneasy.  
“I should brought you some balm later.” She looked at his fingers with worry when John returned her letter. John didn't stopped her. Sometimes, people in the family forgot that he was apprenticing to be a surgeon, or maybe even a doctor one day. But it was nice to have people fussing over you from time to time.

“That is sweet.” It startled John. From the corner of the shed poked out a head of wavy red hair.  
“Maria.” He warned in exasperation. The girl giggled and crawled over the pile of freshly chopped firewood.  
“I think Anna likes you, John.” She smiles like a cat with cream on its paws. “I already read that letter, and am fully willing to write for her. But she keeps saying that she needs to save up some more before replying.”  
John hoped his face was blushing at the moment, not blanching. By the look of Maria, she didn't sense his worry.  
“Anna is nice. I don't think mom and dad will really make a big fuss about it, ” She winked at John, “if you like her back.”  
John gave her a weak smile, and hoped it can be passed as an admission, but ambiguous enough to be denied some day. It was not fair to Anna, he knew. But still.  
Maria picked up a tome from his book pile. It was a book of herbology, with illustrations of herbs every few pages. Soon enough, she dived into it and almost forgot everything else. The Willards made sure everyone in the family, the whole big family, literate, even the girls. And Maria had an enthusiasm for books besides bible and ordinary poetries. John smiled and started the wood chopping again, trying to recite arm muscles silently at the same time. The noise wouldn't bother Maria while she was reading. Their mother would notice her missing in the end, but before that John could pretend he was too engrossed with work to notice that his little sister was enthralled by the books again.

“Ew!” Maria called out in surprise, and John’ axe almost went too sideway to crack the log properly. He raised his head and found Maria staring at the anatomy leaflets, on top of which the one with the fetus on it.  
“Is that…” She stammered a bit, voice full of horror and a thread of amazement. “Isn't that a baby?”  
John panicked. Maria looked at him, frozen. Her face blanched, freckles more obvious than usual. They stared at each other in silence, like two deer spooked by each other. In the end, it was Maria who broke the ice again.  
“Is this, is this what you need to learn to become a doctor?” She looked at the pages again, this time less horrified, though her face still whitewashed.  
“A surgeon, more likely.” John answered weakly, “Dr Leanne said I need to study in a university to become a proper doctor.”  
She continued to read the illustrations, worry clouding her eyes and face. John put down the axe and sat beside her. Slowly, she drew away from the pages.  
“Oh John,” she exclaimed softly and hugged him, “it must be hard for you.” And gradually, John felt himself relaxed and hugged back. “I won't tell anyone.” She said to him quietly, “ I promise, not even mom.”

The afternoon went by. John went back to the firewood, and Maria gave up the leaflets. But the dread didn't seem to leave her by the time Anna came again to hurry her back. It didn't seem to leave her even after supper. That night Maria came to John again.  
“Will you do the surgeon,” she bit her lips, looking haunted, “can you do those surgeons that, that help difficult childbirth?”  
Dystocia. John remembered that word perfectly well. Surgeons for dystocia, for difficult childbirth. It already made him feel sick by simply imagining the process, the body, the scream and blood and gore. But Maria continued to speak.  
“ If, if one day it happened to me,” her little hand gripped John’s, sweaty and white-knuckled, her voice trembling and small, “I hope it's you. I hope it's you to help me out.”  
They had both seen difficult delivery before, more than once, and knew what sufferings and tragedy it could lead to. Maria was thirteen. There would be only a few years on before she got married. With the colony edging more and more to war, there was no telling if these few years would grow longer or shorter. Maria was a gentle soul, well educated. She was attractive with those fiery red hair (unlike John, the same features only looked awkward on him). She was the only daughter in the family and well-loved by their parents and every one. Her marriage would most likely lead to perfect satisfactory. But none of these, as the morbid realization came to John, none of these could help if dystocia happened to Maria.  
He would likely be the only hope then.  
John hugged her, burying his hand in Maria’s soft hair.  
“John, please?” His little sister begged, almost too quietly.  
“I will.” He answered, heart wavering every moment, “I will help. Promised.”

He dug out some paper that night after everyone went to bed, and scrawled a message by a small candle to Dr Leanne. The message would be sent to the doctor tomorrow. Before the harvest, the doctor mentioned a research activity in Boston, which he hoped John would accompany him. By the hints he had dropped and the evasive way he had spoken, John deducted that it was likely to contain not-very-legitimate anatomy operation that the society would frown upon. So back then he hadn't offered any confirmation.  
He would said yes now.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr http://ddelphinium.tumblr.com/


End file.
